Thomas asks, “How do you become a caseworker?”

“My parents didn’t support my career goals so I worked full time at DHS as an executive assistant while taking night classes for four years to earn my master’s degree in social work. The day I became a caseworker was the proudest of my life.”

I lean in. “Did anyone in your family support you?”

“Briella. Always. No questions asked.”

Thomas takes a bite of his cookie. “Isn’t it difficult work? Most kids in the foster system are there because their parents neglected or abused them, right?”

“Not necessarily,” Heidi says. “Some have been raised by a loving grandparent who can no longer care for them. Others were given to the system at birth by a mother who didn’t have the life skills to cope, or two loving parents too young to properly raise a child. Of course, there are cases of drug-dependent parents, and worse. Babies born with addictions because of their birth mother’s disease are heartbreaking. There are also cases of emotional and physical trauma . . .” She trails off, watches a robin feed at the wooden birdhouse hung outside her bay window.

“Can you tell us about some of your more difficult cases?” I push.

“Oh, dear. No, I really can’t do that,” Heidi says with a little frown. “They’re confidential.”

The prim way she tucks her lips at the end of confidential grates. I slide to the edge of the couch. “What if one of those cases, one of those children, came to you for information?”

Heidi reaches for her teacup, takes a neat swallow. “You’re too young to understand this,” she says. “But it’s best for those children to look forward, never back.”

Thomas gives me a warning look. “What if they want to know?” I press.

Heidi holds up one hand, palm out, and says, “ ‘For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope.’ ” She finishes her cookie and darts a pointed tongue to remove a crumb on her upper lip. “I’m so glad we could have this chat, but it’s time for me to get back to cleaning. Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.”

“I’m one of those children who was your life’s work; one of your own.”

Heidi’s brows rise. “My-oh-my! Really? What’s your name, dear?”

“Sylvie Peters.”

Her face transforms from confusion to shock, and finally fear, in a single second. She puts her cup down, misses the coaster, it clatters, and tea slops over the edge. Quickly, she wipes the spill off the polished wood, doesn’t even bother to look at me, says, “That name doesn’t ring a bell, dear, but then age has dimmed my memory.”

Frustration, fury, and the unfairness of it all rise like bile. “Let me help fill in the blanks. From age four-and-a-half to almost six, I was in foster care, but there’s no information in my file about that time. And I can’t recall a single thing about it or anything from my life before. In 2002, I went to live with Hana and Wess Young in High River. A month later my adoption went through and I became Sylvie Young.”